


Midnight Black

by Mazarin221b



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 666 Challenge, First Kiss, M/M, Tattoos, The first night of the rest of their lives, Wings, erotic touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 00:57:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19878958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: For the 666 Prompt challenge: WingsAziraphale shakes himself. Blinks a few times. “When did you,” he starts, and his throat is betraying him, choking him, so he simply gestures, a sweep of his hand up and down. “...that.”Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Oh, the ink? I thought you knew. Well, no, you probably wouldn’t. The eighties were a bit wild, honestly. I forget about it most of the time.”





	Midnight Black

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed, I just wanted to do a thing tonight for fun. If there's a typo or something let me know, eh? I'm like 6 days late on this one but better than never!

Aziraphale hasn’t seen Crowley with his shirt off in over five hundred years, since Aziraphale had managed to snatch him from Torquemada’s basement in Seville.

(Crowley looked at Aziraphale with narrowed eyes when he heard Aziraphale explain that Crowley was an actual angel but played along, manifesting a set of six black wings covered in slitted snake eyes; an abomination of Aziraphale’s holy form but it looked impressive.)

And now he’s standing in his bedroom the night after they return home from Tadfield, demanding a change of shirt because he swore he smelt like burning metal and rubber. Aziraphale had followed him in, still talking, and now that Crowley’s back turned to his wardrobe, Aziraphale can see it.

The outline of his wings, carefully furled, inked across his shoulders, over his back, curling down his sides and, Aziraphale is certain despite the jeans covering it up, curving sweetly over his hips and arse.

It’s just the outline of them, barely edged details of primaries, secondaries, coverts; a dark sweep of black that has Aziraphale itching to follow the line of it over his skin, trace it with his tongue and find out if the skin under the ink tastes different than the salt of his neck.

“-and it’s not like we’ve not been that close before, angel, I honestly think we could pull this off if we time it right. Oi, angel, you listening?”

Aziraphale shakes himself. Blinks a few times. “When did you,” he starts, and his throat is betraying him, choking him, so he simply gestures, a sweep of his hand up and down. “...that.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Oh, the ink? I thought you knew. Well, no, you probably wouldn’t. The eighties were a bit wild, honestly. I forget about it most of the time.”

“It’s beautiful.” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, and he looks down at the floor, a traitorous blush rising up his neck. He’s always thought Crowley beautiful, lithe and graceful, golden-eyed and sinuous. And now this, a startling reminder of what he’d seen today for the first time in thousands of years - the magnificence of Crowley’s midnight sweep of wings, glossy-dark and enchanting.

Crowley grins, a quirk upward tick of one side of his mouth that Aziraphale knows means trouble. He steels himself as Crowley slowly saunters over to him, so close they’re sharing breath.

“Beautiful, eh? Never took you for the kind to go for the bad boy type, angel.” Crowley hooks a finger under Aziraphale’s chin and tilts his face up. “Would you like a closer look?” Aziraphale can’t look him in the eye, focuses instead on the corner of his mouth, the line of his jaw. But he nods, taking a leap; if this is the last night of their lives, he’s going to take the opportunity offered.

He nods, and Crowley smirks and turns around, presenting his back. And oh, it’s a picture even closer up; the feathers have the finest, most delicate barbs sketched in -- they look as soft as the real thing, and Aziraphale traces his finger over one, slowly, reverently.

Crowley sucks in a breath. Aziraphale, bolder now, does it again, following the topline of his wing to the place between his shoulderblades they would manifest. He pauses, watching Crowley’s skin twitch under his gentle ministrations, then leans forward and presses a reverent kiss to the middle of Crowley’s back.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whispers, chin tilted down. Aziraphale tips his forehead to the place he just kissed, slipping an arm around Crowley’s waist. Crowley’s hand comes up to cover his, a fierce grip on Aziraphale’s fingers that speaks to his sudden desperation.

“I don’t know what tomorrow will bring,” Aziraphale says carefully. “But know this: If we survive this, I expect a full retelling of the story of these. Naked, in bed, with me. Then you’re going to take me to get my own.”

Crowley lifts Aziraphale’s hand to his lips. “It would be my pleasure.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, come scream at me about ineffable husbands on the twitter, @mazarin221b!


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